Trashy Chic

by Cathy Lubenski

  “Come in, come in. May I fix you some tea?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Charmed, Bertie followed her through an apartment that was bright with light and filled with pictures on every wall and surface. Many were movie stills showing a diminutive Debbie Reynolds-ish woman as a school marm in the Old West, a gauzily dressed concubine in a harem, a pilot with goggles and leather jacket and more. Others showed the same woman in nightclub settings seated at tables with film stars next to her. Rock Hudson was in several.

  The apartment smelled of lemon furniture polish and lavender. She was relieved by the difference in Bella’s apartment and this one.

  “I suppose I shouldn’t have asked you in without seeing some ident, but you have such an honest face.” The little woman squinted at Bertie. “And so pretty, too.”

  “Please, please sit down while I put the kettle on for that tea I promised you.”

  Bertie sat in a chair painted white at a table covered in a red checked tablecloth. The one window was curtainless, letting in sunlight that made the yellow walls glow gold.

  The little woman came back and pulled up her own chair. “I’m Dolores Schwartzbein, but people call me Doll. I’m sure you recognize me from my time on the big screen. I was Doll Duvall back then, and the name has stayed with me.” She squinted at Bertie again. “Oh, what am I saying? You’re too young to have seen my movies, but maybe on the late show?” There was hope in her voice and face.

  The woman did look vaguely familiar, but Bertie knew the woman couldn’t have been more than a bit player.

  “I think I do recognize you.”

  Doll looked so pleased that Bertie would’ve said anything to see that smile. “I just knew you would, I just knew it. I’ve starred in movies with the big boys, you know—Alan Ladd, Bob Mitchum and that horrible Ronald Reagan. Can’t say I liked him much or that wife of his who always dressed in red.”

  The tea kettle started to whistle. She carefully poured the hot water into delicate blue china cups that matched her eyes, returned the kettle to the stove, and got a pitcher of milk and a sugar bowl from the refrigerator.

  She sat at the table, but before Bertie could fix her tea, she jumped up again and stomped forcefully across the floor to the sink.

  BOOM BOOM BOOM

  Bertie leaped to her feet, too, and headed for the door, still skittish from her “interview” with Bella.

  “No, no, dear, please come back and sit down. Have your tea,” Doll said.

  Bertie edged back into the room and sat again.

  “Did you see them? Cockroaches? They’re just terrible. I keep the place spotless—good training from my mother, you know—but they come from her place,’ Doll nodded in the direction of Bella’s apartment. “It doesn’t matter what I do, they still come, and they bring earwigs and silver fish and other friends that I can do without,” Doll said, sighing.

  “Can’t you move?”

  “Oh, I’ve threatened, but every time I do, Bella’s brother, that nice R2 lowers my rent. My pension doesn’t go as far as it used to and even though I’m 80, I’m not ready to go into the old actor’s home. Too many old farts.”

  Bertie laughed and Doll joined in.

  “So, you know R2?”

  “Oh, yes, he stops in quite often when he visits Bella and says hello. He always ask if I need anything, such a nice boy. Bella and I are the only two left on this floor, you know. Everyone moved because of the bugs and the smells.”

  “And R2 lowers your rent so you’ll stay?”

  “Exactly! He doesn’t say so, but I know he counts on me to keep an eye on Bella. He makes sure I have his phone number and tells me to call him if there are any problems.”

  “I’m sure there must be. Problems, I mean,” Bertie said.

  “Now why would you say that, dear?”

  “Bella is … nutty?” Bertie tried to be polite, but she figured anyone who used the word fart wouldn’t mind nutty.

  “No, no, dear, Bella is fine. She has her quirks, but then who doesn’t? And if I had a problem with my health or if I fell—did I say I was 82?—I know Bella would help me. We look out for each other. Would you like some cookies dear?”

  Bertie hesitated, a mental picture of cockroach-covered cookies in her brain.

  Doll laughed. “I know what you’re thinking, but don’t worry. I keep things in the fridge to keep the bugs off.”

  She opened the door and showed Bertie clean dishes neatly stacked on the shelves with cookies and flour and other food on others. Pots and pans and a skillet were on the bottom shelf.

  She pulled out a bag of Moon Pies and a large plate and shook them onto it.

  Bertie took one and tried to bite into it, but it was hard from the cold.

  “Dunk, dear,” Doll said, dunking the Moon Pie into her tea.

  Bertie dunked and bit. A new taste treat. The hot tea melted the chocolate and warmed up the marshmallow. She sipped her tea—chocolatey and marshmallowy—and chewy from the Moon Pie’s graham cracker crumbs.

  Doll smiled. “Good, yes? Yes! So, sweetie, why are you talking with Bella? Are you working on a big story about Bella’s daddy?”

  “Nooooo,” Bertie said, infusing the answer with what she hoped was just enough hesitation to make Doll think that she was.

  “Oh, that odious man. I can’t say I wasn’t happy to hear he’s gone.”

  “Did you ever meet him?”

  “No, I never met him, praise the lord.”

  “Why do you think he’s odious, then?”

  “You’ve seen how Bella lives and you can ask that?” Doll’s face clouded with distress. “He moved her out so he didn’t have to deal with her messes and then forgot about her. She embarrassed him. There’s nothing wrong with Bella that a good psychiatrist couldn’t help. She has Pat Rack syndrome, I saw it on ‘Oprah.’ It’s treated all the time these days with medicine.”

  “Why doesn’t R2 help her?”

  “R2 doesn’t have the same influence over her that her daddy did. Those poor kids were like two little orphans growing up—abused orphans. Not physically abused, but emotionally abused. I saw a story about it on ‘Ellen.’ That vicious man called them names, made fun of them. They could never live up to that sick old poo-head’s expectations, no matter what they did.”

  Bertie could see she was getting worked up. Her Moon Pie was crumbling under the pressure of her fingers.

  “So, R2 and Bella bonded?”

  “Yes, just like brother and sister. What am I saying? They are brother and sister.” Doll laughed and Bertie could see how got movie roles. Even if Doll had zero talent, she was one of those people who attracted other people—charm radiated from her. Bertie had met people like her … fat, skinny, ugly, beautiful, tall, short … it didn’t matter what they looked like. Bertie liked to think they were the meaning of “charisma.”

  She laughed along with doll. “How do you know all of this?”

  “Oh, Bella and I talk occasionally. She used to come over for Moon Pies and tea, but she’s caught up in her TV programs these days. Has the TV on all the time. R2 likes my frozen Moon Pies, too, and the poor boy is so lonely. I don’t think much of that la-di-la wife of his. A man needs someone to listen to him; doesn’t matter how good looking wifey is, she should listen.”

  “Was Bella home the night her father was killed?” Bertie hoped this wouldn’t trigger a question about the story she was supposedly going to write, but she realized Doll had forgotten about it in her pleasure at having someone to listen.

  “Oh, yes. The police asked me the same thing. That night, I heard a man’s voice in the hallway, and I opened the door to see who it was. You know, for R2.”

  Bertie had an idea that Doll was also interested in seeing if Bella ever had beaus visiting her.

  “The caterer was delivering food just like every night. R2 hires caterers to cook for Bella so she doesn’t have to, which is a good thing considering those horrible-smelling messes she’s always brewing.”

&nb
sp; “And you heard Bella, too?”

  “Oh my yes. She opened the door and took the food. R2 pays in advance so she doesn’t have to, but she thanked the man. I heard her myself. When Bella’s daddy bought this place, he put up some cheap walls and divided it into smaller apartments. I hear everything that happens in the hallway.”

  “Do you think Bella is capable of killing her father?”

  “No, sweetie, I don’t. I think she’s one of those poor creatures damaged by the person who was supposed to love her, but I don’t think she was capable of killing her daddy. Or anyone. She just needs someone who cares for her.”

  They sat quietly for a moment until Doll jumped up and stomped across the floor again. BOOM BOOM BOOM

  “There did you see them? I figure that even if I don’t actually kill the little bastards, the noise will scare them away for a bit,” she said cheerfully.

  “Well, thank you for your time, Doll,” Bertie said, getting up.

  “Oh, you don’t have to leave so soon, do you? I was so enjoying our talk.” Doll’s face crumpled like a small child denied Moon Pies.

  “Actually, I’ve enjoyed it, too,” Bertie said. “Maybe I could come back sometime?”

  Doll smiled again, instantly delighted. “That would be wonderful! I could tell you some of the stories about my days in the movies, the interesting stuff, dear, that you don’t read in books. About what the big boys were like in the sack. And who the ‘big’’ boys were, if you catch my drift.” She winked.

  Bertie laughed out loud. “Deal.”

  “Oh, wonderful! I’ll make sure I have plenty of Moon Pies. I can see that you’re a girl who really enjoys her food.”

  Bertie was still smiling when she left the building. She ran right into Detective Madison. Again.

  “Uh-oh,” she thought.

  “You didn’t really think I bought that story about thrift stores cups and landfills, did you?” he asked. “Who did you talk to? Bella or Doll?”

  “Both actually.”

  “Bertie, I can’t stop you from talking to anyone but -”

  “That’s right, you can’t, you’re not the boss of me.” Bertie had hoped to make him smile, but nothing.

  “I can’t stop you from talking to anyone, but you have to understand that someone hit Robert Bellingham in the head so hard that it cracked his skull. This is dangerous stuff.”

  “I’m a reporter, Madison, I’ve covered fires! explosions! earthquakes! Reporters go to dangerous places and talk to dangerous people. Gimme a break.”

  “Dangerous places like preschool fashion shows?”

  “Oooh, low blow.”

  She started to walk away. Madison followed, gently grabbing her arm.

  “Hey look, I’m sorry. You’re right. You’re a reporter. You want a story and you’re trying to get it. But please, do me a favor, OK?

  She caved. “I’ll try. What is it?”

  “Be careful.”

  “That’s it? Sure, no prob.”

  “No, that’s only part of it. How about putting my cell phone number on speed dial? If you have a problem, call me—or does that go against the preschool fashion reporter’s code of ethics?” He smiled.

  “I can do that.”

  He watched while she programmed it in.

  “My office number, too, just in case,” and watched her do that one, too.

  “Thanks, I feel better.”

  “Me, too,” she said. “Look, I’ve got to get back to work, but maybe we could, I don’t know...”

  Just then his beeper went off and he snatched it off his belt, muttering an impressive string of swear words. He took one quick look at it and said, “I gotta go. Maybe we can talk about doing an ‘I don’t know’ soon. Bertie, please be careful.”

  He leaned over and gave her a light kiss, waggled his eyebrows at her, and headed for his car before she could emit a weak, “sure.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Bertie took an uncharacteristic detour on the way to her desk the next morning—she actually went looking for an editor. Nan Shepherd was at her desk behind the glass wall of her office when Bertie gave a perfunctory knock and sidled in.

  What was it about this woman that irritated her so much? Possibly her sheer pretentiousness, or that she knew everything about everything, or maybe because she treated her reporters like underoxygenated platypies.

  Or possibly because she was one of the editors riding this nuclear bomb into oblivion, waving her cowboy hat and yelling “Yee-haw.”

  Bertie plastered a smile on her face. “Hey, Nan,” Bertie said. “I have a story idea for you.”

  The woman was attractive in a sneering sort of way with long blond hair in a chignon (not a common bun). Prior to six months ago, she’d been as flat as a fifth-grader, but caused quite a stir when she came in after a vacation with two big ones bobbling around on her chest.

  Now, she wore low-cut blouses with the tops of the puppies—known as Nanners in the office—protruding and bent over a lot. Bertie wanted to push her into a mud puddle.

  “Could we talk later, Bertie? I’m going into a meeting in 10 minutes.”

  “It’ll just take a sec,” Bertie said, planting her fanny in a chair in front of Nan’s desk.

  “I came across an old building, just gorgeous. The original interior is pretty much intact as far as I could tell—mahogany, and gilt and crystal chandelier. And it has a past. There was at least one ‘30s movie filmed there. This place is a gem, it has everything including star appeal. I can’t believe we haven’t written about it before.”

  Boredom was coalescing on Nan’s face. “Thanks, Bertie, but I think you know we want to attract younger readers to our Web site: the 18 to 34 group who’s getting most of their news off the Internet. An old building? I don’t think that’s something that demographic would be interested in. Unless, maybe raves are held there or a rapper turned the basement into a studio. Otherwise, I don’t think so.” She started shuffling papers, signaling it was time for Bertie to go.

  “But what about people who are getting the paper? Shouldn’t we care about them, too?”

  “Right now, we want them to start logging on to the Web site.”

  “So, what you’re saying is that since no one is reading the paper anyway so let’s not give them anything to read?” Bertie asked.

  Sue looked offended. “I think we’re giving people plenty to read.” She looked at her watch. “Give me the address of the building and I’ll run it past the other editors at the meeting.”

  “By the way, has anyone figured out how to make money by giving the news away for free on the Internet?” The words were hovering on the edge of Bertie’s lips, waiting to leap off, and commit career suicide, but she swallowed them back. No time to talk back to the giant heads with layoffs looming.

  Bertie left without a word. She stood there, looking across the newsroom, taking in the bustle that made up every day’s race to deadline. She mourned for all the romance, the hard work, the glamour, the history of newspapers that was being lost.

  Bertie worked for an hour and a half before starting what she thought of as the Quest for Lunar Pastries, or the multi-floor hunt for Moon Pies. She went to vending machines upstairs and downstairs and finally admitted defeat. There were Twinkies, vanilla wafers, Ho-Ho’s (been there, over that), chocolate chip cookies, mini-doughnuts, apple streudels, and other cellophane wrapped sugar bombs.

  She was trudging slowly back toward her desk, Moon Pieless, when she rounded a bend and found herself behind Nan. She’d missed the tippity-tappity, tippity-tappity of the woman’s high heels, usually audible three corridors away.

  Bertie made a face at her back. Then, she made another one.

  Don Crotty walked out of his office. He stared at her, and she stared back with fear racing through her.

  “Could I see you in my office, Bertie?”

  She slunk in and he closed the door behind her. He perched on the edge of his desk, but left her standing in front of him like
a naughty second-grader.

  “Bertie, any enterprise like this is run by the people who are the most qualified to make decisions that affect not only employees, but also the thousands of readers who buy the paper. Management blah blah blah and it’s important to show respect blah blah blah and you need to develop a better attitude blah blah blah.”

  He took a long time to wind down, and Bertie tuned out most of it.

  “Well?” he asked her.

  Bertie put her head down. “Don, I’m sorry you had to see that,” she said, “but it’s not what you think. I’m really embarrassed...I don’t want you think that I don’t respect Nan and everyone else in management...”

  “If you don’t want me to think that, Bertie, you shouldn’t act like a little kid. I think you should apologize to Nan.”

  “You don’t understand,” she protested. “I’m so embarrassed. I suffer from...I have...” she lowered her voice and then blurted, “I have chronic flatulence.” Her voice took on the overly dramatic tones of a Beano TV commercial.

  “I wasn’t making a face; I was trying to control—you know. Sometimes it’s really hard to do and...I’m sorry,” she trailed off, astounded and pleased at the lie that had come so easily. She turned her head and let out a minor sob; a real one, she was afraid he was going to fire her.

  Don appeared stunned, stuck to the edge of his polished desk. To see what he’d do, she contorted her face into a grimace and took a deep breath.

  He lunged at the closed door, opened it and stood back—way back—to let her pass. “Uh, OK Bertie, I guess I didn’t realize that you had a problem... that way. I hope you’re getting medical attention; I’m sure our medical plan would pay for something like that.”

  She went through the door, then turned back. His face was bright red from holding his breath.

  “Did you know that Adolf Hitler had chronic flatulence?” she asked sotto voce. She wondered how long he could last without breathing, but decided, in her infinite mercy, to leave before she found out. He hurried to shut the door behind her.

  That was one of the most successful conversations she’d ever had with management. When she was out of eyesight she laughed. The lie had been inspired. It would spread through management like pate through a goose and she’d be off their radar for awhile. She had a smug smile on her face.